“I had to cook something for Grandpa before I left.” She’d microwaved his frozen burrito while he’d poured himself a bowl of cereal. She’d worry tomorrow about stocking the house with healthier options.
Their footsteps echoed on hundred-year-old oak floors. The Victorian had been built to impress, but despite being filled with beautiful antiques, it felt as cavernous as the chest of the Tin Man before he’d earned his heart. They’d stayed here as children the summer their parents contemplated divorce. They’d cleaned the house, they’d run errands, and they’d done so silently at Leona’s insistence. They’d half joked that Grandmother Leona thought they were the Cinderella twins.
This was the house their father had grown up in. If Brit had never been here before, she’d have thought there’d be pictures of Dad scattered around. He was Phil and Leona’s only child. But there weren’t any pictures. Not of Dad, not of Phil, not of the twins. On the bright side, there wasn’t a program from Dad’s funeral last summer either.
Brit wrinkled her nose over the hated smell of lemon polish and... “It smells like—”
“Liver and onions,” Reggie whispered.
Brit tried to turn around, but Reggie had the grip of a professional bouncer and continued to propel them forward.
“Eat it and look grateful.” Reggie gave her a final push into the dining room. “It’s the only thing she’s good at cooking.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Brit whispered back. “Cooking is her favorite method of torturing guests.”
Grandmother Leona liked making people uncomfortable the way a clown liked to make people laugh. Not that you’d see Leona’s lips curl in a smile at the reaction of those served her liver specialty. But her satisfaction would be there in the sly upturn of her voice.
The smell of liver was stronger in the formal dining room and couldn’t be masked by onions. Brit’s stomach executed the U-turn her feet wanted to do. For sanity reasons, she resorted to being a mouth breather.
“Brittany.” Grandmother Leona backed through the swinging kitchen door, carrying a serving platter full of steaming liver and onions. She wore a plain blue cotton dress with long sleeves, one of which held a handkerchief tucked at her slender wrist. Her peppery-gray hair was in a smooth beehive and she wore Great-Grandmother Rambling’s pearl choker on her thin regal neck. “Sit down,” Leona said, her tone a command. No please. No warm greeting. No hugs for a granddaughter she hadn’t seen in close to a year, the last time being Dad’s funeral.
Brit had felt more welcome in Joe’s field this morning.
Leona set the platter down and took the seat at the head of the table, indicating the twins should sit flanking her. “Regina tells me you’ve rented space at the barbershop.” Her grandmother dished liver onto a plate and tsked. “Four years in college. You shouldn’t be engaged in a trade.”
“I’m an artisan working to make ends meet.” Self-doubt lumped in Brit’s throat, giving her words the gravelly feel of uncertainty.
“Is that what they call beauticians now?” Leona had a knack for slipping a barb between people’s defenses. “Artisans?”
Brit declined the bait. She accepted her plate of liver and claimed two sourdough rolls from the full bread basket.
“One roll is enough, Brittany.” Leona arched one silver brow. “Carbs live on hips.”
Brit wasn’t a child anymore. She wouldn’t let Leona make her feel like a wing-clipped duck on a pond during hunting season. She didn’t return the extra roll. Instead, she turned the conversation to Leona’s one weakness: Phil. “I should take the leftover rolls to Grandpa Phil. He’s having cereal for dinner.” Which sounded more appealing now than it had thirty minutes ago.
Leona stiffened. “He needs to eat more fiber and protein. A healthy diet will make him live longer. We should all learn from what happened to your father.” She couldn’t even call Dad by his first name.
Her grandmother’s apathy prodded Brit’s rebellious streak. “Phil’s freezer is full of frozen burritos.”
Reggie had taken her first bite of liver. She looked like a bug had flown into her mouth.
“There might be enough liver leftover to send Phil a serving.” Unlike most people her age, Leona had a way of frowning that minimized her wrinkles.
“He’d like that.” Not the liver, but that Leona had done something thoughtful for him. Poor dear was still stuck on his ex. The why was a mystery.
The liver was thin. Brit cut hers into baby-sized bites and began hiding them under the mashed potatoes. This wasn’t her first liver rodeo.
“I booked two guests for next weekend,” Reggie said proudly. “They bought the wine-tasting package. That’s fifty dollars more a night.”
“Don’t mention dollars at the dinner table.” Leona didn’t seem impressed with Reggie’s accomplishment. “I’m assuming you invited Brittany over because you’ve finally agreed to my terms. I can’t sell the Victorian to just one of you.”
“Yes.” Reggie set down her knife and fork on the far side of her plate, the way you did at restaurants to indicate you were done. She didn’t look at Brit. “We agree.”
We?
Brit choked on a bite of mashed potatoes. Maybe because a small piece of liver had made its way onto her fork. Maybe not. Maybe because she was choking on Reggie’s lie.
Leona stared at Reggie with calculating eyes. And then she laughed. “I smell desperation.”
“It’s the liver,” Brit said, half under her breath.
Reggie mentioned a crazy sum of money. She did not mention that Brit had refused to be her business partner.
A smart woman would have backed away from the table. A smart woman would have abandoned her twin to face Leona alone.
Brit sat very still.
“The money might be acceptable,” Leona said, as a queen might say a jewel-encrusted crown could use a few more Hope Diamonds. “But I have other conditions to the sale.”
“More than me being on the contract?” Brit asked in a strained voice.
Reggie had yet to meet Brit’s gaze, busy as she was selling her lies to Leona.
“Yes. I want to live here until the day I die.” Leona looked like she was playing her trump card. She was almost smiling. “Rent-free.”
Deal-breaker.
Brit met Reggie’s gaze across the liver platter and shook her head. Once upon a time, she and Reggie had been masters of twin-speak. Back before the Promotion Dance, Brit had been able to tell what Reggie was thinking before she started a sentence. And now? Her twin-speak was tuned to a different frequency. Was Reggie actually considering Grandmother Leona’s proposition?
“I may only be in a trade,” Brit ventured into the silence. “But I know a bad business deal when I see one. The answer is no.”
Reggie looked more stricken than when she’d been chewing the liver. What was wrong with her? She’d been a shark in hotel management. And now? In the course of twelve hours, she’d been pushed around by Shaggy Joe and Grandmother Leona. Maybe Reggie did need a business partner. Just not Brit.
“There’s a travel writer in town who happens to think I’m a draw to the B and B.” Leona cut her liver into neat, even squares. “I’d throw in breakfast.”
“As in, you’d make it?” At Leona’s nod, Brit pushed her plate away. “I’m out.” She made a dignified run for the door.
“Wait.” Reggie scurried after her, following Brit to the front porch and closing the door behind her.
“You lied to her.” Brit struggled to keep her voice low. Lying was something she couldn’t do. “I’m not buying this place. It gives me the creeps.”
There was no mistaking the desperation in her twin’s eyes. “I can’t make this work without you.”
“Good, because it’s not meant to work.” Brit sped toward the stairs, willing to forgive
the lie if only to erase the trapped look in Reggie’s eyes. “Run away with me, Reggie.”
“No.” Reggie lunged for Brit’s hand. “Not yet. She’s going to get used to the idea of selling. And her terms will change.”
Brit slipped her hand free. “But mine won’t.”
“Can’t you just—” Reggie’s gaze swept the porch “—go along with it?”
“No. This house is her greatest love.” Bigger than her love for Phil. “I won’t lie to her about something so important.”
Now there was more than desperation in Reggie’s brown eyes. There was anger. “You have to.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
Reggie backed to the door, turned the knob. “This is a good deal for you. More money than cutting hair. A better gamble than your so-called art. You have to see that you were meant for more than digging through the trash or rummaging through a junkyard like some crazed homeless scavenger.” She disappeared inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft yet piercing click.
Brit clutched the stair railing. She expected harsh criticism from Leona and perhaps even Mom. But Reggie had always been positive about Brit’s creative passion, accepting of her modern expressionism. Reggie loved Keira. She was proud of Brit’s accomplishments. Why, just this morning...
She’s beautiful, Brit. And so are you.
But then there’d been...
Arts and crafts.
A better gamble than your so-called art.
Rummaging through a junkyard like some crazed homeless scavenger.
Brit straightened, still in pain but refusing to break. She couldn’t keep standing here where Reggie would see or come back out.
Reggie had lied to Leona about Brit’s involvement in the purchase. Reggie had apparently been lying to Brit about things for years. Reggie was just like everyone else who paid Brit’s art lip service, who thought her time was better spent outside the workroom, away from the blowtorch, away from her passion.
Brit was lucky to be passionate about two things—hair and metal. She wasn’t passionate about the B and B. She had to focus on what was right for her, not on Reggie. She had to set aside the sharpness of her sister’s words and ignore the betrayal. She had to believe in herself.
Easier said than done.
She turned away from the Victorian. She’d prove to Reggie that her art was more than bits and pieces of trash and junk. And the best way to do that was to make something she was excited about and invested in, and something that sold on the merits of the idea alone: the BMW gate.
The sun was setting. She pointed her feet toward Grandpa Phil’s place. All she needed was a flashlight and some nerve. And stealth. No headlights to give away her presence. She could walk to the bridge that was near Joe’s place. She’d make a night run to the BMW, looking for its registration papers. She’d be brave. And hopefully that bravery would restore her ability to create art.
* * *
“I’M DONE CLEANING. I want a car to work on.” Sam tossed her sponge into the bucket at her feet and gestured weakly toward the dark field across the road, the one illuminated by the light from the service bays and little else. “Those wrecks out there don’t count.”
“Everything counts.” Joe kept scrubbing the wrench to the beat of a song by one of those boy bands Sam loved so much. The music crackled from the single-speaker AM radio he’d found under the counter. Turo had insisted they leave most of Dad’s tools when they’d left Harmony Valley, which was turning out to be a blessing. Joe hadn’t been allowed to take any tools when they left Southern California. His father’s tools had rusted in the humidity, but it wasn’t anything a good scrubbing with a sponge and some WD-40 couldn’t fix. “We’ve cleaned enough for one day. Why don’t you try to start the tow truck? It’s been charging all afternoon.” And the tires were holding air.
She moved off with heavy-heeled reluctance.
Crickets chirped their last good-night before the evening turned chill and silenced them. In the distance, bullfrogs sang bass to the boy band’s falsetto. The river would provide some dinners if Harmony Valley didn’t provide enough customers.
A few minutes later, the tow truck gave a mighty cough, belching a big breath of burnt air into the service bay, and then died.
Sam stuck her head out the driver’s window. Her chin barely cleared the sill. “Does the phrase lost cause mean anything to you?”
Not when it applied to everything in the garage. Joe set the wrench down. “Tell me your diagnosis.”
She resettled her baseball cap on her head and frowned at the dashboard. “I suppose the distributor cap could be wet.”
“Ah, my little prodigy.” He almost felt like smiling. “You’ve forgotten rule number one of engine operation.”
“Argh!” She slapped the steering wheel with one palm. “Lubrication?”
“That’s right. Let’s take the engine apart, check that the gaskets are still good, and then put it back together and lube everything up.” Luckily, he’d brought several canisters of different-grade motor oil. What he didn’t have were gaskets.
An hour later, they had the engine manifold, carburetor, hoses and air filter laid out on the floor. The dinner hour was long gone. Joe supposed the stew in the Crock-Pot would be close to overdone by now. “We can’t put it back together without gaskets. Why don’t you head upstairs and serve dinner? I’ll close up down here.”
She scampered off, more like his little girl than she’d been since Uncle Turo had been arrested.
Joe turned off the radio and then the shop lights. The lone light from the office lit a path to the service bay.
His cell phone chimed with its regular ringtone. Sad to say, Joe recognized the number. Sadder still that recognizing the caller ID practically cut him off at the knees. “Agent Haas, what can I do for you?”
“Mr. Messina...” The federal agent who’d arrested Uncle Turo paused as if he hadn’t been prepared for Joe to answer. “After much searching, we’ve been unable to locate the high-end cars and car parts your uncle stole.”
“Allegedly stole,” Joe said, locking his knees in place.
“We know he received several stolen vehicles and parts. We’ve arrested several accomplices.” The agent’s tone wasn’t registering good cop or bad cop. It didn’t threaten or comfort. It was rational and factual and determined, which was scary. “We think you know where Turo hid everything.”
“Um...no,” Joe said with all the finesse of the petty criminal Agent Haas and the rest of Harmony Valley seemed to think he was.
“Where did he hide them, Joe?”
“I don’t know.” Joe was relieved it was the truth.
“Turo called you today. What did he say?”
He knew that? How had he known that? And if he did, then he’d be able to access Joe’s voicemail. He would have heard the silence on the other end of the line. “I didn’t pick up and he didn’t leave a message.”
“I need you to get him to talk.”
Joe swallowed. “Why would he talk to me? By now he knows I’m the one who ratted him out.”
“He kept a stable of rats, Joe. And yet, you’re the only rat he called.” Agent Haas didn’t believe Joe. If their situations had been reversed, Joe wouldn’t believe him either. “I’ll give you ten days to locate the stolen goods. And then I’m coming for a visit to Harmony Valley.” He hung up.
Sam moved around upstairs. Crickets chirped. Bullfrogs sang.
Normal. All normal. And yet, Joe gripped the countertop so he wouldn’t fall. The guilt was overwhelming. He couldn’t protect Turo. He couldn’t protect Sam.
He should be angry. At Turo for putting him in this position. At Agent Haas for treating him like Turo’s accomplice. At Athena for not being here when he needed her. Anger held him together. But he wasn’t angry. He was a d
ad who might have his daughter taken away for something he didn’t know anything about. And that made him afraid. He preferred the anger.
Joe struggled to fill his lungs with air.
A light flashed across the road. The kind of slim beam from a small flashlight. Near where the BMW was.
“It can’t be,” he muttered, charging out of the garage and across the road with speed fueled by welcome anger.
Brittany had the car door open and was bent over, rummaging in the glove box. She hadn’t bothered with coveralls this time. The sparkly threads of her clothing glimmered like winking stars in the inky sky.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growled, as territorial as a junkyard dog who’d been kept on a short leash for too long.
Brittany bumped her head on the door frame. “Why are you always sneaking up on me and yelling?” She straightened, rubbing the back of her head.
“Because you’re always trespassing.” He refused to feel sorry for her.
“Someone told me these cars were abandoned.” She set her hand on her hip. She’d been caught. Most people would be running or apologizing.
“Was this the same someone who told you there were free pickings here?”
“No.” There. There was some remorse. “I was checking for registration. If this car isn’t registered to a Messina—”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” His frustration level was redlining. His head should be pounding. His eye twitching. Instead, he felt alive and sure of himself for only the second time in weeks. The first being this morning when she’d had the BMW’s hood up.
She groaned. “I need this, okay? I need it more than you do. Not that you’d understand. Me being a stripper and all.” She marched toward the river, which meant she had to go past him. “I should have given you a buzz cut.”
“And I should call the cops.” That was the last thing he wanted to do.
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